Unleashing my Inner Bitch

Somewhere on our way to Ottawa, on an uncrowded bus, the inner bitch that is always just underneath my prickly sweet surface, was unleashed, unbeknown to all of the poor individuals who would feel her wrath for the rest of the weekend.  I felt an almost imperceptible change come over me and decided to go with it.

I believe that all of us have an inner bitch - for some, like my friends Steph and Paul, it is easier for the bitch to remain present in their daily lives.  These individuals hold people at bay and wait for a reason to trust others, so their bitches are constantly there.  While for others, like me, this interior bitch always remains hidden since I interact with individuals with my heart wide open and I trust them from the very beginning.  Both manners of interaction can be detrimental: the first does not always allow you to become close to others, but you do protect yourself, while the other allows you to become close to others very quickly, but you can get very hurt time and time again.  Thus, I decided to experiment this weekend: instead of suffocating the words that usually keep bubbling to the surface, but that I unceremoniously pop, I let them loose.  Made snide comments all of the time to my audience of one and these were laughed at and enjoyed.  And I felt liberated, free as a bird and unusually happy. 

The bitch was ever more present on Sunday after having watched a silly chick flick and being thrown into a strange head space as a result.  Steph and I decided to sit outside for a while before meeting our friend Caro for a much needed drink.  So, there we were, sitting by ourselves, smoking, talking and singing our hearts out to Adele, Florence and the Machine and Coldplay, minding our own business, not wanting anyone to meddle in ours and sitting on the steps leading to the Timmy's at Concordia.  A slight rain creating sparkling beads on the strands of both of our hair, dampening our spirits further while wetting our feet.  A man approached us, slurring his words while attempting to compliment me and normally, I would smile patiently and listen to whatever he would have had to say, but not that night.  I cut him off, telling him that tonight it was just between girls - and when he tried again, I told him that I was a lesbian and that I was not interested, hoping that that would turn him away.  And yet no, he insisted - so, I got mean, told him, "Ecoute monsieur, nous ne sommes vraiment pas interessees, donc bonne soiree" with a forced and yet purposeful smile.  When he began to talk again, I cut him off with another more determined "Bonne soiree monsieur" and then watched as he walked away, defeated.  I did not want to be bothered by anyone, much less a drunken stranger and here I was letting him know that.

Thought I would have felt better once he was gone, but, truth be told, I felt worse and guilty.  Perhaps this man was just a lonely soul who needed to talk to someone and here I was denying him that comfort, however brief it might have been.  You see the trouble with unleashing your inner bitch is that you end up denying other people their humanity.  Everyone, as a good friend of mine has realized, wants two things: to belong and to contribute.  So, who am I to deny anyone their wish to belong or to be comforted?     

Blue Met Highlights

I have lived the most amazing, but intense, last six days of my whole life.  I had the best volunteers, met the best tech team and had the most amazing assistant ever!!
Here are some of the highlights of the festival for me:

1) Learning that there would be henna on the first night... going down to where she was stationed, near the salle de bal, but not being able to sit with her for the amount of time she required to do my arm... going back to see her to ask her if she would kindly come to the volunteer suite to do my arm there - and she actually came up because she could not get over my enthusiasm!  She is so kind and has such a beautiful soul!  She did such a wonderful job too!  That was the one thing I wanted to do during the festival, and it happened!

2) Joking around that people might fall into the little fish-infested pond located in the lobby of the Holiday Inn Select and then learning that it actually did happen... FIVE times - I only wish I had been there to see it happen all five times!

3) Sharing a very hearty breakfast with the tech boys on the majority of my early mornings at the hotel - became addicted to the bacon, eggs, sausages, potatoes and tiny pastries served every morning :)  Could not start my day without it.


 4) Joking around and talking about men with my incredible assistant Maya - what a fantastic woman!  We had so much fun together!

5) Giving at least seven massages... and getting perhaps three back... but I enjoyed giving them more than anything else :)  Seeing one of the tech boys stretched out on four or five of our very hard and uncomfortable chairs, how could I resist? ;)

6) Seeing the smiling faces of my volunteers when I made my rounds and giving them high fives and/or hugs while I was passing through.  I nicknamed myself "la bebite a calins", aka "the hugbug".

7) Being told that I had some fine "gilets" and not knowing what that means in French slang...

8) Spending some time with my pals, Ana, Manu, Evelyn and Row while at the festival - made my days when they were there.

9) Meeting a very young volunteer that is absolutely too cute for words.

10) Telling an amazing volunteer, a very tall man with a very sexy accent, what to do and seeing him leave with a smile and a quick step - he was ready to help with anything!  What an incredible volunteer!

11) Transferring energy with a veteran volunteer that has such a calming effect on the whole Blue Met team because she has been with us forever.  She is the coolest woman on the planet!

12) Getting a VERY cute man to volunteer... just so I could see him again!  And he actually accepted!

13) Telling a seemingly prudish volunteer to go grab Alex's wet balls from the pond :)  The decorator had gotten some plastic globes that lit-up and had placed them in the pond - the volunteer needed to go and fish them out... telling her to bring a towel for Alex's big wet balls... classic dirty humor for those who can appreciate it.

14) Listening to all of the stupidities being said on the walkies and cracking a few jokes myself.  Hearing the boys mutter and curse on the walkies because they were missing the game!

15) Meeting Alex's boys - his sugar gliders and potentially being offered a baby-sitting gig when him and his Marie-Eve go out of town :)

16) Dealing with absent volunteers and five room changes - meaning that I had to re-organize my WHOLE schedule TWENTY minutes before the first events were set to start... and being surprised by my own level-headedness and efficiency.

17) Learning that I was in charge of a room with fifteen minutes to go before the discussion was about to start... and actually pulling it off.

18) Eating all day, every single day :)  Just munching and munching away - I think I have gained ten pounds !!

19) Meeting Dennis Trudeau :)  He came into the volunteer suite looking for some snacks - well, the volunteer suite was THE place to be for that :)

20) Getting the party started on the first night - of course, where there is M-E, there is a party :)

My Foray into Poetry

Please do not judge this cheesy poem too harshly - it came to me while I was walking to the Metro and thinking of a particularly good looking man.  It is PURE cheese... but heartfelt and sincere... but CHEESE !!


We are crazy, complicated and complex creatures.
We spin our webs of interpretations with every simple syllable uttered,
Making both ourselves and the hapless flies we desire to ensnare
Dizzy and nauseous with our efforts.
What did he mean by that "Hello", in that particular tone?
What do his smiles symbolize?
What did he mean to signify by telling me that I looked good?
We are all about the subject, object, subtext, and context,
While our knowing victims skim and skate across the waters of meaning like Daddy Long Legs.

Attempting to draw them ever closer, ever nearer,
We risk their escaping while traipsing every so slowly towards them on the thin and pendulous threads of hope.
Daydreaming about a cheeky grin or a
A set of eyes the color of moist soil after a brief shower,
Expectation, the dasher of dreams, smasher of hopes, murderer of reality,
Rears its obnoxious head to whisper in our ears.
Falsely soothing our fears and boosting our self-fashioned confidence,
Struggling with our hearts, minds and egos,
Befuddling, meddling and riddling itself into the fray.

Lines blurred and crossed,
Borders, walls and fences peeked over but not torn asunder,
Dances danced, words spoken,
Wishing our love might make them feel like
Butterflies escaping the dreary confines of their self-imposed cocoons,
Longing to make them feel as joyful and powerful
As bumblebees tasting the sweet nectar of flowers
On that first glorious spring day.

Home: Part Two

Sitting on the scratchy surface of my front balcony, my back against the even rougher beige brick of my apartment's exterior wall, I am taking great pleasure in my two drugs of choice.  Rather surprised that I am not sleepier than I should be, considering the past two nights of awesome benders, the first having spent the remainder of the evening in great company and the second having gotten too wasted for my own good with my two crazy girls while celebrating the end of an era for one of them;  the accumulated lack of snooze-worthy hours should have, by now, hit me and made me fatigued beyond repair, but surprisingly I have been up since 7am and do not feel the tug of sleep at all. 

I am seated with my legs bent, my feet drawn in close towards me, letting both innocent and more painful thoughts flit through my head like the black birds in flight I am observing.  The two of them are involved in an intricate aerial ballet, shrieking as they dive and swerve towards and away from each other.  The soothing sound of the dried out pods in the trees lulls me into a pleasant and calm state of mind and I close my eyes for a brief moment.  Snippets of songs blaring from my office reach my ears and I softly mumble the lyrics sung by various artists like Bon Jovi, Florence and the Machine, Amanda Marshall, Fiest, Sia and my new favorite singer, Adele, while the traffic on the main street creates its very own symphony by interjecting with each speeding car.

Today has been a beautiful one, not only because of the Spring weather, but also because I have been doing nothing more strenuous than reading while basking in the glorious sun, doing laundry and eating a tasty ham sandwich while in the company of my mother.  Listening to Adele's wonderfully crafted song "Someone Like You" for the first time brought with it some tears of regret and feelings of failure, but I masochistically listened to it repeatedly at least ten times, in awe of both the words and the powerful voice singing them.  Belting out the lyrics through,or because of, the salty liquid streaming down my still slightly chubby cheeks, creating a streaky and smeared mess of yesterday's mascara, my voice building in assurance and growing with confidence with each uttered syllable.  The result of my audience-less, unless you count my cat as an audience of one, and solo performance has been an even raspier and sexier voice.  Despite the bludgeoning of emotions I have experienced, each guilty thought acting like a stone being cast by an associated memory, I am feeling strangely calm and sated now, the tears having dried up and the runny mascara having been wiped away.

Another evening planned out with the girls at our usual and preferred haunt has turned into a prolonged me day, so I decide to rent movies and stay in.  I take a shower to wipe away last night's debauchery and sense a cleanliness within myself that transcends the mere soap, water and shampoo I used.  I tuck my legs under me on the couch and snuggle deeper into the green fabric's welcoming folds, having grabbed my cozy blanket for the occasion.  Velvet decides to join me by curling herself up into a tight little furry ball in the crux of my left arm.  I watch the two movies, absentmindedly petting my purring beauty, getting lost within the stories unfolding in front of my eyes and enjoying my own and my cat's company for the rest of the evening.

Home

Sitting at my desk, letting the warmth of my little corner of the world slowly seep into my cold and tired body, I have the whole, empty apartment to myself.  The piece of cheesecake I thought had been left in the fridge for me is gone and I am so very sad about that;  I can picture my face having crestfallen upon opening the fridge and discovering a bare shelf instead of a promising box of happiness.  I must therefore content myself with a can of sun-dried tomato flavoured tuna and crackers - a far cry from the potential slice of cheese heaven I had imagined making love to upon arriving home.  To my small octangular white plate, I add a few sliced pickled beets, a hard-boiled egg and two pieces of Feta, creating a smorgasbord of culinary weirdness.  Can you tell I have not done my groceries in a little while?  Under the horrible circumstances of not being able to inhale a promised morsel of sweet cheesecake goodness, I have been forced to add some form of cheese to my plate in order to compensate.

Surrounded by my bright turquoise office walls and bookshelves filled beyond capacity with my beloved books, I am listening to Linkin Park's "Waiting for the End".  The poignant lyrics flow from my mouth without my conscious knowledge of their doing so and I am typing away while visual snippets of my great day flash in my mind's eye.  The music is a little louder than usual at this hour given that my roomie is MIA and I am happily chatting with one of my adored female friends about our respective days as I reread a few of my blogs.  I nibble at my strange combination of food while Velvet periodically maneuvers herself between my legging-clad calves, the sound of her nails hitting the hardwood floor as she again and again walks away make it seem as though she is wearing a feline version of stilettos.  The softly jangling bell on her red plaid collar gently announces her presence once again near my left foot even before I see her sitting there calmly.  She places her two front paws on the edge of the chair's cushion, looks up at me and meows, signifying her confusion as to why she is still sitting on the floor rather than in my lap.  I gently scoop her up in my arms, her persistent initial resistance undercut by her almost instantaneous purring, and hold her close against me, feeling her tiny body relax.  I place her on my lap and continue to type, letting her settle more comfortably in the hollowed space created by my having my right leg curled under my left;  she stays and purrs for awhile as I pet her sleek warmth. 

Disturbing my baby from her short rest, I decide to take a brief break from the blogging, chatting and checking of emails by going outside on my front balcony, becoming disconnected from everything and everyone for that small moment.  The air outside as it caresses my face is very crisp and the usual sound of traffic coming from Langelier is non-existent at this hour.  A few cars pass every once in a while, but the streets are otherwise deserted.  I lean again the unyielding, cold brick wall and close my eyes for a few seconds, listening to the bizarre elongated pods rustling and swaying in the bare branches of the tree in my landlord's yard.  Looking up at the mere two stars peeking out from their cloudy blanket and then glancing at the darkened window next door, I think about my sleeping mother, hoping that she is feeling better and knowing that she won't tell me if she isn't.  The windows in the other apartments across my street are blackened save for a few;  I wonder what those people are doing and if they are wishing for sleep as I am.  I am hoping for the sweet release of slumber to take its hold, but I know that will not happen for another few hours, so I stand on my balcony, my ratty pink Concordia sweatshirt that has seen better days providing me with a limited coverage from the nippy breeze.  I watch the smoke from my cigarette circling up into the night sky and thank those two stars that I have such fantastic friends in my life.    

More Mustard, Less Ketchup

Us humans, the amazing creatures that we are, are multi-talented in so many ridiculous ways;  for example, take yours truly: I can walk to the Metro, letting the blissful Spring sun warm up my still chilly from Winter face, smoke, drink my French Vanilla and answer my "Black and Yellow" blaring cellphone, albeit a little clumsily and with cigarette ash flying in my face, all at the same bloody time.  AND, I might have been listening to my Ipod too, but I had not plugged myself in yet... that came AFTER I answered my phone.  We, as the advanced species that we are, can send our scientists into outer space, create atomic bombs that have the capacity to wipe out our whole existence and we also have the ability to mass produce magical little pills that give impotent sixty and plus year old men back their virile youths.  Hell, we can even have sex, pretending to be enjoying ourselves while we mentally go over the day's events, create To Do lists and wonder why we did not do that load of laundry.  We are evolved, intelligent and productive beings that can accomplish so many great and mundane feats and yet, when it comes to doing something as simple as telling another person exactly how we feel and what we are really thinking, most of us, if not all of us, are fumbling around in the dark, unable to make that most basic of human connections.

How is it that after a whole early and late morning of seemingly incredible and flowing conversation and an admittedly difficult to coordinate date, if I can attach that label to our outing, he was unable to tell me that he had lost interest?  Because, as far as I could tell, and as much as he had said himself, there had been something there... unless he was lying to begin with to save my feelings?  In our day and age where there are so many various forms of communication, from emailing, chatting to text messaging, all he had to do was pick one and  explain himself.  Funny how there are numerous different ways of speaking to people, but it seems as though we are talking less and less to one another and leaving so much more space for unnecessary interpretation.

After some bullshit speech, which I am unhappy to report I bought into hook, line and sinker, about how individuals nowadays are not treating each other with kindness and respect anymore, how is it that he didn't even have the decency of responding to text messages?  How is it that he could say that he would let me know later on if he was available for a potential encounter at Hurley's and then not have the heart or guts to let me know that he could not or did not want to?  Was it any better to leave me hanging any time I attempted a friendly hello or suggested the possibility of a coffee?  What's the deal?  Was he not capable of saying something like, "Look, we had a great time the other night/day, but I am no longer interested in getting to know you."  Simple, no?  Instead, he took the easy way out, preferring to excuse his selfish and disrespectful behavior with the too often used "I'm too busy" card.  Right.  I have six part-time jobs that do take up quite a lot of my time and energy, but I still managed to make an effort.

Why can't two people, well more specifically a man and a woman, just be honest with each other?  Why does there always seem to be an element of game playing involved?  I mean, don't get me wrong, I love me a game of Monopoly or Cranium, but for Christ's sake, why can't we just call a spade a spade when it comes to matters between members of the opposite sex?  A man who is genuinely interested in you, and perhaps the operative word here is genuinely, should show you that and not make you feel silly or out of line when you are attempting to do the same - if not, fuck off.

Mustard... and a Little Ketchup

Sitting on the back rest of a pockmarked wooden bench at the corner of Maisonneuve and Mackay, the intoxicating taste of cigarette smoke and my already lukewarm Franglais Timmy's pleasantly mingling and lingering on my taste buds, I people-watch while the wind ruffles and plays with my short, spiky hair.  A forgotten and abandoned newspaper flutters underneath my feet, rolling and undulating in its own sort of solitary dance even though it has been deserted by its disrespectful reader.  The sound of a passing security guard's jangling keys reaches my ears, competing with the underlying and low-droning noise of nearby construction work and the intermittent honks made by jaded and impatient drivers.  Students scurry by, some tightly clutching their books to their chests as though the bound pieces of transformed dead trees are life buoys amidst the sea of knowledge in which these poor souls are threading water, others confidently stroll along, a mixed perfume of arrogance and contempt trailing behind them as they make their righteous way to class.  A bearded and turbaned man accompanied by his friends walks closely by me;  he unabashedly looks towards the opening of my shirt, his eyes remain fixated at my barely visible cleavage for a while as I glare at his face, willing him to look me in the eyes rather than at the apparently more interesting area below my chin and neck.  I glance back towards the lonely and discarded newspaper, ignoring the man fascinated with my breasts, and let the flood of questions and queries invade my mind.

In today's individualistic and narcissistic modern world, is it so difficult to find someone with whom you can truly be yourself, without any second-guessing or doubts?  A person who thinks about you with a dreamy smile plastered upon his face as he pictures you while at school, work or elsewhere.  Someone who recognizes your quirkiness and yet loves you for it anyways.  An individual who sees your worth and value as though you are a treasure he would risk everything to safeguard and protect.  A man with whom you can share your insecurities and fears and who can do the same with you.  A man who is not afraid to invest in you and what the two of you are creating and building together, much like a savvy businessman stakes his fortune on an unknown shareholding company despite the fact that the stock market is an unreliable beast.  A man who respects, admires and worships you despite, or even because of, all your supposed faults and is unafraid to address these with you.  A man who believes in the follies of initial love and trusts the slow and steady development of even deeper feelings.

How is it that I can give myself 100% to anyone who gives me 50% or less, giving him my heart and trust almost at the initial hello?  The subconscious monologue within my head sounding something like this: "Well, hello there sir, here is my heart," as I rip it out of my chest, still beating, and hand it to him unceremoniously while it drips blood onto the floor, "Do what you'd like with it, but please do return it bruised, broken and cracked once you are done so that I may give it, damaged, to someone else."  Is this a deficiency on my part?  To trust and expect that people will treat me the way I treat them?  To want to make the recipient of my attention feel like a million bucks when he is making me feel like the equivalent of a Toonie or less?

And when I am alone, sitting on the first step of my gallery while pondering the great meaning of life, where is this contempt for myself stemming from like a weed in full bloom, beautiful in its ugliness within a garden of lilies?  From which place within my psyche is this anger, frustration, bitterness, hostility and anxiety brimming and bubbling over the edges like a Black Velvet stirred too quickly, spewing and spilling over the rim of its tall, thick glass onto the sticky wooden table that has felt way too much disgorged liquids upon its lacquered surface?  When I look in the mirror, who is this fuzzy peach-headed, funkily accessorized and pierced nosed woman staring back with mascaraed and slightly blood-shot eyes?  Why am I able to transform my exterior shell so easily, letting go of the good, cutesy girl look for a more edgy and rocker chick image, shedding my old physical self like a snake discards its skin and slithers away stealthily?  How is it that I can barely scratch and skim the surface of what is going on within my heart and head?  Am I toughening my look in the hopes that my heart will follow suit and become less prone to fragility and vulnerability?

Why am I always reaching out rather than in?  Letting my tentacled emotions latch onto others, squid-like, suffocating them and dragging them down into the unknown and as yet undiscovered depths of my ocean self? Why do I keep trying, again and again and again... when will it be enough?  Even when I confidently say that I am not trying, looking or seeking, I end up making the first move, smiling the first smile, texting the first message, typing the first words in a chat session, making a suggestion for drinks or downright inviting... and then I end up feeling defeated when my appeals are rebuffed, ignored or taken lightly.

I just want to find my star...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQxPWT-ifyI

Love ??

Our hearts, the treacherous bastards that they are, lead us on wild goose chases that more often than not bring us nothing but pain and heartache;  the beauty, however, lies in the ability to make our way out of the dizzying and maddening love maze, with at least a little bit of dignity still clinging precariously to the remnants of our pride, and to try again and again, without guile and deceit, to face every new prospect with honesty, truth and genuinity.

Thus, gather up the scattered and tattered pieces of your broken heart, whether it has been ripped apart by love lost or other tragic life experiences, patiently and carefully sew the splintered fractures back together and secure the embroidered mass back into your chest, but not too tightly, so that it may be given once again when the right opportunity arises.

F*** Cupid Day Celebrations and Chocolate Orgasms at Juliette and Chocolat

I have arrived a little earlier than my girls with whom I am celebrating the death of the diaper wearing fiend, who plays with all of our mortal hearts like the child he is depicted as would amuse himself with mere toys;  Sharon, my beautiful roommate and friend, should be here relatively soon while Manisha, my soul sister, should make her entrance at 7:30 given that she goes by Manish Time, which is a special time zone only she occupies and for which I have begun to lovingly tease her.  I am asked to wait near the door by the friendly and cheerful waitress while she finds me a spot in the rather empty restaurant, considering what time of year it is;  I had been expecting a line up outside and the tables to be filled with barf-worthy couples canoodling and whispering together over coffee and chocolate goodies.  I sigh inwardly in relief because at least Cupid's dirty work will not be on display.

I take the opportunity to look around me since it is my first time at this place about which I have heard so many positive comments.  The open and airy space and the elevated cream ceilings make me feel even smaller than I really am while the exposed brown brick of the wall in front of me gives the restaurant a rustic aspect.  When the waitress comes to collect me in order to show me to my seat, I glance down at the floor and notice that the tiles resemble milk chocolate squares so that I have the impression that I am walking on chocolate;  I cannot help but smile at the thought.

She seats me at a table attached to an extended length of banquette that resembles an extra long Hershey's milk chocolate bar... more chocolate imagery.  The varnished wooden table on which my left arm and right elbow now rest and onto which the manicured nails of my left hand drum unconsciously is also the color of milk chocolate... hmm, I sense a theme here as I decide to sit on the Hershey's milk chocolate bar.  The walls are the same shade as silky smooth white chocolate and the old fashioned wooden cabinets and counters are a slightly whiter and less creamy tint;  the counters are covered by pale wooden butcher blocks on which red-aproned and hatted employees busily assemble and put the finishing touches on the various desserts that have been ordered by the hungry patrons.  Right above me, on top of the imposing half wall that separates the restaurant in two, are large bulbous vases filled with lengthy decorative spiraling ivory branches that fill the space between this wooden ledge and the imposing and high ceiling.

As I am gazing around me, letting my mind wander not unpleasantly, Sharon appears before me, dark brown hair glistening with melting snowflakes that are falling in abundance outside, her turquoise scarf a beautiful contrast between her pale face and her black tweed coat;  she is smiling, her cheeks rosy from having just come from outside and her glasses are de-fogging slowly.  I greet her with two kisses on her slightly damp and cold cheeks, even though we saw each other just this morning at home, and I wish her a very Happy Fuck Cupid Day.  She sits in front of me on the wooden chair and we make small talk while devouring the menu with our hungry eyes, trying to choose one of the many delicious sounding salads that shall make up our late dinner and shall hopefully compensate for all of the heavier calories we shall ingest afterwards.

The menu mostly consists of chocolate inspired dishes and its mammoth list of brownies, pastries and other desserts to choose from makes my mouth water - an actual cornucopia of chocolate decadence and flavored coffees to perpetuate a sweet and delicious fall from grace for anyone attempting to remain on a diet... thankfully, that is not my case any longer and so I shall enjoy every single bite from whatever it is that I do decide upon... though the decision might be extremely difficult to make... can I take two desserts?  Why just have one?  Isn't there a saying that good things only come in twos?  And at the moment I cannot think of anything else that could be better in twos than a double dose of brownies... maybe with some melting ice cream on top and a huge coffee...

We both decide on our respective salads and we talk about various subjects, including Sharon's new paramedic boyfriend, while we are waiting for our meals to arrive.  I take a few minutes to jot down my impressions of the restaurant in my writing journal;  we joke around that I should pretend to be writing a review for a newspaper so that I might perhaps get a discount or a free meal.  Our immense salads arrive shortly and both plates literally take up the whole tiny table.  The king-size bed of lettuce adorning my huge white square plate is topped with pieces of hard-boiled eggs, strips of deli ham, and the best part, topped with roughly grated cheese.  My salad is garnished how I think all dishes should be: with copious amounts of cheese!  I believe, like the Cheese Whiz slogan, that cheese adds personality!   We quickly dig in, both of us being famished;  I make appreciative "MMMs" with every bite, which I unsuccessfully try to stifle because it tends to annoy people, unless the person sitting in front of me is my mother, in which case she does the same thing.  

Halfway through our salads, I see my bundled-up better half walking towards our table.  I quickly get up and embrace her, giving her tons of kisses on her chilly cheeks to which she giggles and kisses me back just as fervently.  Her long black hair peaking out from underneath her tuque is slightly damp from being exposed to the snowy elements and her dark brown eyes are laughing as she looks at me.  She takes off her coat and displays a cute red shirt she has worn on account of Single Awareness Day, takes a seat on the banquette next to me and begins to look at the menu while Sharon and I finish our salads;  she exclaims over all of the desserts, expressing her desire to try each and every one of the decadent brownies.       

Once we are finished our salads and before the waiter has come and taken our order, I decide to get up and  investigate the intriguing glass case to my left;  it is every diabetic's worst nightmare and every model's private and personal Hell.  The glass shelves are filled to capacity with goodies beyond anyone's wild imagination;  peanut butter and chocolate brownies, white chocolate brownies, unctuous looking chocolate brownies and countless other sorts all piled high on top of immense square porcelain plates with hand-written labels next to them indicating their savory identities.

The other side of the display case is full of special and presumably hand-crafted chocolates, either decorated with different colored icing or plain and made in all sorts of shapes, like squares, ovals and circles.  The chocolates are all neatly lined up on the same white dishes used to keep the sumptuous brownies and there are layers of them in each plate separated by parchment paper - to be that parchment paper, I secretly think for an instant!  Moreover, I can just imagine the sweet and flavorful smell that must escape from this dessert paradise every time an employee has to reach in and take an incredible morsel of chocolate or brownie.

Once I have finished inspecting all of the immoral treats, I go back to my Hershey bar seat and start dissecting the menu with Manisha;  we go through all of the choices and list all of the ones we could make, which are seemingly endless!  Should I have the chocolate and peanut butter or the white chocolate brownie?  Or, should I have a sundae, satisfying my chocolate and ice cream fix at the same time?  Finally, I decide upon the trifle: chocolate mousse layered with pieces of brownies and filled with caramel goodness, complete with melted chocolate to pour on top... OMIGOD.  But then, the coffee selection makes me hesitate a little... what should I have since every kind is so tempting?  I, after consulting the woman who introduced me to my drug in the first place, choose a simple latte so that it will not compete with the richness of my dessert... though I still have a little bit of a difficult time sticking to my decision... and Sharon insists I have a DECAF latte... I wonder why?  When I do mention the latte, conveniently omitting the DECAF part, she immediately looks at our waiter and says "Decaf for HER please."  To which I respond by sticking out my tongue at her.

The desserts soon arrive with a flourish: the brownie trifle for me, the brownie a la mode for Manisha and a sundae for Sharon.  The three of us sink our spoons into our respective chocolate dishes and then are silent... the chocolatey goodness has rendered us mute, which is hard to do, especially to Manisha and I when we are together.  The only sounds coming from our table for a few seconds are "MMMMs" of praise and appreciation... and I can only begin to describe my dessert as being an orgasm in chocolate mousse form.  The creaminess of the dense chocolate mousse lends itself perfectly to the slight saltiness of the thick caramel sauce, all of which is punctuated by the small pieces of soft brownie morsels, and the melted chocolate sauce which I have poured on top adds another layer to the orgasmic melange pervading my mouth.  Add to that the taste of the latte that I am slowly sipping, which is mingling and intertwining itself with the rest of the flavors I have just mentioned... and you can see why I have chosen to describe this utter bliss as an orgasm.

My two girls and I have a great time, eating, laughing, smiling and calling Cupid all sorts of dirty and inappropriate names... ok, ok, it is mostly me badmouthing Cupid... and then we vow to come back and share at least five desserts between the three of us!  All in all, this Fuck Cupid Day has not been so bad because I have the best girlfriends to share it with... now, if only Cupid could take some archery classes from his cousin and step father Ares, the Greek Gods are very incestuous as you all know, so that he could aim for an AVAILABLE man to add to my already amazing life, despite all of my recent ranting and grumbling, then I might not want to hurt him so badly...

Dancing: a Powerful Outlet

I had been anticipating going to dance somewhere, anywhere, all week, but a last minute change of plans meant that I was going to Row's birthday celebrations at Milsa's instead of Salsateque where I have my weekly Latin dance marathon.  So, I am pleasantly surprised when Row and the gang agree to come with Steph and I to PJ O'Hara's earlier than I had originally thought we might... let the dancing begin is what I immediately think when we cross the bar's threshold and hand over our coats, scarves and other paraphernalia to the evening's jacket guardians.  My feet are already itching to move and my hips are aching to follow the beat of any song the DJ will play.

After greeting and chatting with a few people I either know or have recognized from previous parties, my own smaller and more intimate party makes its way to the dance floor at the back of the bar.  The dancing area is rather barren, but it doesn't matter to me as I drag my rather reluctant revelers onto the dance floor in order to get the groove going as early as possible.  I climb onto the elevated platform and begin to ham it up for the benefit of my friends, my motto being: fake it till you feel it.  I wiggle my booty suggestively at Row, making her laugh, and serenade her with my loud and obnoxious renditions of "DJ's Got Us Falling In Love Again," "I Like it," and "Who's that Chick" while exaggerating my mouth and arm gestures.  For Steph, my spooning companion for the evening, I reserve the shaking of my disappearing breasts by moving my shoulders rapidly and spreading out my arms;  she dances near me and sings her heart out to all of the songs she recognizes while laughing at the theatrics I am putting on for their benefit, and mine, truth be told.  Abdie, one of our gorgeous male friends, disappears and reappears at sporadic moments, dancing with me zealously for short intervals of time.

Clearly, I am and feel in my element while the others are not feeling it so much;  thus, it is decided that the others shall go to another bar close-by while I stay in order to dance and ogle the male chocolate wrestlers that are supposed to be the main attraction for us ladies tonight.  I feel a little hard pressed to not be going with Steph and Row to the other bar, partly because I do not want to lose Steph since we are spending the night together and secondly because I had not wanted to spend another night alone at a club... though I do inevitably end up dancing with other people somehow... but we assure each other that we shall meet at our designated spot.

"I needs to dance..." I smile sadly and tell my unwarrantably worried and concerned friends while I shrug my shoulders as an offering of further explanation.  I glance at Steph and our eyes meet.  She nods slightly, tilts her head to one side and offers a small enigmatic smile - I do not need to tell her what it is that I truly desire, which is to forget myself and my thoughts for the ever so brief moments of peace and solace that the music will bring me.  She squeezes my arm and makes sure that I do not mind that she is going and I of course reassure her that everything is fine and that she needs to enjoy her night as much as I will attempt to love mine.

They soon leave, allowing me to slip back into the anonymity and darkness I find on the now crowded dance floor.  I let the beat of each song decide what my hips, feet and arms will do, letting the tension that constantly dwells in my shoulders and neck disappear and dissipate slowly.  I dance at the fringe of all the tightly formed groups of swaying and sweating bodies, letting my own uncoil and relax from the small and mundane stresses it has experienced and absorbed during the week;  I sing along to every song, not caring how loudly I am or am not singing.

I decide at a certain moment to go and check out the chocolate wrestling, but after a brief hiatus I return to the dance floor in the same manner that an alcoholic is drawn to a bottle of Bourbon or JD - it is an instinctual and irresistible pull that I cannot and will not deny.  The elevated platform I was occupying before is now too crowded with gyrating young female students and a couple, or a potential one at least, grinding against one another as though they are the only two people here.  I therefore make my into the middle of all these individuals, close my eyes for a moment and let the beat of the music wash over me like a soothing ocean wave.

The rhythm of the songs dictate how my body decides to move and I let myself get carried away, no thoughts clouding my mind, no foolish feelings choking my throat and making my light blue eyes well up with silly tears.  I am right now simply a moving body and I smile despite myself because it just feels so damn good to be moving along to melodies rather than to my thoughts and emotions.  How to describe the welcoming blank space filling the area between my two ears rather than the images and scenes that play like a slideshow behind my eyelids whenever I close them, these moving pictures blinding me from seeing and appreciating what is in my life rather than what is lacking from it.

Dancing, what a powerful and effective eraser of anything that is not belonging to my immediate physical state of being and for the duration of my time spent on the dance floor, I am, for the most part, blissfully happy;  my sadness, apprehensions, questions and doubts leak out of me with the beads of sweat forming and collecting on the small of my back, the space between my breasts, the crevices underneath my arms, the top of my forehead and the sensitive area that is my neck while my hair is soaked and tied back so as to be out of my way.

At some point, however, a song I both love and abhor begins to play and I smile ruefully as the images that I unwillingly allow to play in my mind bombard and bother me like pesky mosquitoes.  Two separate scenes play out in my head in which I danced with the same individual to the same bloody song but at two different locations.
The first occurred at a club when we were the two of us enjoying the night together as though it would not end.  We had been dancing for a short while before the song in question had come on and I had recognized it right away - we had been playing a game all night where I would call out the names of the songs before they had fully begun to play... well, at least I was playing!  After I had yelped in excitement because I had heard the first beginning notes, he had pulled me towards him and we had started to dance closer together;  I took the opportunity to kiss his salty cheek and grinning lips while our hips had continued to move intimately.
The second time was when I had pulled some of his lady friends onto the dance floor with me at a local bar - I had no idea where he had gone and though I was feeling insecure and a little uncomfortable, I was determined to enjoy myself nevertheless.  So, we were dancing, the four of us ladies, when the song had come on and I had let out an appreciative 'woohoo!' while allowing my hips and arms to take control of the rest of my body as I mumbled along to the words.  I do not know how, but I felt him watching me and so I looked into the direction where I thought he might be, and sure enough, there he was leaning against a table, smirking at me as though he had been looking at me all along.  I had smiled back and then looked away so as to continue to dance.

I let the scenes settle in my mind like sediment in a glass of water;  I take refuge in the rhythm, lyrics and melodies and focus on what my body is doing.  I look around me and see the female chocolate wrestler I had befriended earlier and an ASFA Exec, so I go over and start dancing with them, grateful for the mask of happiness I must now wear partly for their benefit, but mostly for mine.  I would dance well into the next morning if I was allowed to, but unfortunately the bar must close and the morning must be faced and dealt with.  My sole solace is knowing that I am meeting my dear female friend again at the end of the night to talk and laugh with and with whom I can platonically spoon and hug fiercely if I need to.

A Whole New Meaning to Wrestling

The two male opponents kneel down into the liquid chocolate and, I have been told by a reliable source, lube mixture that only covers the very bottom of the inflated basin.  The tiled floor directly underneath it is covered in plastic, but the immediate area surrounding it is extremely slick and slippery - one wrong move around the tiny pool and you will find yourself in it!  The Concordia students attending this event have left their previously occupied bar stools and counters and have gathered around the upcoming entertainment;  we are all crowded together in a rather tight space, especially considering the excitement such an activity will potentially generate.

My attention is drawn to the young men in the small makeshift ring;  the challenger to my right is a muscular blond with shoulder length hair and well-defined abs who is wearing a headband and two rather revealing Speedo-like shorts.  The gentleman to my left is a taller and even stockier light brown haired guy wearing nothing but tight jean cut-offs;  I decide that I will cheer for my fellow Concordian further away from me, to my left - why, just because he is damn hot!

They face each other and perform a few theatrics for the benefit of the still growing crowd, who voices its appreciation when the blond beats his chest like King Kong and then flicks chocolate into his nemesis' face.  In order to start the match, the two men must be covered in chocolate and so two gorgeous ladies perform that duty;  they each take a plastic bucket with chocolate sloshing at the bottom and then respectively tip their pails onto the awaiting wrestlers' bodies... and both boys are now unctuously gleaming and glistening with melted milk chocolate so that their muscular physiques are highlighted and more defined... ladies, if you loved chocolate before, let me tell you that you would at this very moment adore it even more after witnessing such a marvelous and yummy spectacle.

The battle is now ready to begin and the tension between the two testosterone driven male bodies has elevated slightly as neither wishes to lose face while smeared with chocolate.  The ref blows his plastic whistle and the two primed males spring towards one another, both reaching for the kerchief tucked into their respective chocolate drenched belts worn for that specific purpose.  Their beautiful bodies slide and slip against the walls of the inflated basin and chocolate raindrops splash the cheering audience - I am tempted to lick my arm when some chocolate lands there, but then I remember what has been done in that chocolate and so I restrain myself! 

The first round is over with pretty quickly with the jean shorts toting man winning it;  he pumps his arms into the air yielding the rag as his prize and the spectators respond accordingly with screams and hoots as though we are witnessing a gladiator having triumphed over a roaring lion.  The imposing and young looking student slightly behind and to the left of me yells the champion's name and I turn towards him to make sure I have heard correctly before I scream, "Go Jessie!"  Jessie, whom I have never met in my life, looks away from the rest of his adoring fans, flashes his teeth in a smile, thereby creating a striking contrast  against the darkness of his chocolate covered face, and then points his finger in my direction while he winks at me provocatively - I can only respond with an enthusiastic "WOOHOO!" as the next round is about to begin.  The next two rounds determine the smaller of the two men as the winner, yet it seems as though Jessie is a crowd favorite.  Once the match has officially ended, the two wrestlers respectfully shake hands to a series of whoops and hollers before exiting the rubber pool and making their way upstairs to clean up and change.

Up next are two beautiful Amazonian brunettes tastefully covered in a way that makes me pleasantly surprised - for some reason I had thought the women would be more scantily clad than the men, but the male variety, especially a dude who goes by the name of Mighty, have been less dressed than the ladies and have therefore given us much more to look at!  While we are waiting for the match to begin, I befriend the female wrestler to my right and we dance to a couple of songs together, creating our own dance floor smack in the middle of the bar, and we share a few laughs and many smiles.  Finally, the fight is about to start and one of the organizers of the event, the gorgeous, bubbly, sweet as pie and newly converted to the blond side ASFA Exec, asks me to pour the chocolate over my new acquaintance;  I accept and tell my pumped wresting warrior the duty I must perform by her.

The two focused chicks climb into the rubber enclosure, kneel down and already try to psych each other out with a few cutthroat looks - man do women ever play dirty against one another!  And why is that?  Perhaps that might be the subject of another blog!  For now, let me take you back around the chocolate pool while the ASFA Exec and I tip our buckets over the heads of our respective contenders.  We then carefully, because the floor is as slick as newly formed ice, but quickly, so as not to get drenched in flying chocolate, back away from the ensuing fight. 

The ref signals the start of the round and both girls immediately lunge at each other, flinging chocolate in every direction.  The first two rounds are pretty definite with my betting horse aggressively winning the kerchief both times;  the final part finishes with my chocolate warrior coming out of it on top - literally - she has grabbed her opponent, flipped her over, straddled her and seized the chocolate soaked rag.  The match is over with my challenger having won hands down.  The two women then amicably hug each other, smile and laugh together, presumably at the fact that they are covered in chocolate and are at this moment beyond recognizable.

My novel acquaintance steps out of the pool with a triumphant grin barely visible underneath all of the chocolate smeared on her pretty face.  She high fives me, leaving chocolate dripping down my upraised palms and pumps her arms into the air to signal her achievement.  We the audience cheer for her uproariously having shared in her victory accomplished in a basin of chocolate.  We then slowly make our way back to whatever short-lived and yet oh-so-necessary comforts we had been engaging in before the wrestling matches had taken precedence;  we turn back to all of the other sorts of activities the night life has to offer and the chocolate wrestling soon becomes a dim and faint memory while the fog of alcohol or the hypnotic effect of dancing takes over. 

Running into a Familiar Gentle Giant

“You should SO go wrestle!”  I tell the exceptionally cute and lofty blond guy whom I am actually taller than at this particular moment, though he normally towers a good head and a half above me.  I picture him half nude and covered in chocolate and need to make sure that I am not actually drooling!

He shrugs his broad shoulders and continues to dance, sipping at the beer he is holding in his large right hand.  “You go!”  He responds while tapping along to the beat with his mammoth sneaker-clad feet. 

Leaning towards him I say rather flirtatiously and with a slight competitive edge coloring my voice, “I’ll go if I can take you on…” and I smirk while I jab him gently in the chest with my two index fingers.

“Phff!”  Grinning, he then sneers and looks at me bluntly from head to foot.  He cocks his head to the left, motions up and down with his hands to indicate his impressive height and then mimics carrying something over his shoulder.  He leans his whole body towards me and declares, “I could take you with one arm.” 

I smirk in response and challenge him loudly over the blaring music, “Dude, bring it!”

Before I can even react, he brazenly and deftly scoops me off of my feet and slings me over the shoulder he has just indicated a few seconds earlier;  my torso hangs over his left shoulder and rests against his wide and muscular back as he spins me around and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, kicking my bent legs in protestation, my arms glued to my sides while my talon like nails carve and dig into his solid shoulders.  Despite my trepidation, I cannot help but giggle breathlessly and a little nervously.  After he has spun me around a few more times than what can be considered a comfortable number after having eaten at Milsa, he softly sets me back down on my dancing spot.   I quickly glance towards Steph and Row, who are looking at me with mouths wide open.

So, who is this scruffy and delicious blond individual who literally swept me off my feet for a total of perhaps five minutes tops?  Well, it seems like we met AGES ago back at the beginning of September when I lost four hours of my life at a chalet somewhere close to Quebec City... CRAZY weekend that was and one that I would repeat EVERY week if I could, albeit to the detriment of my liver and overall health.  This younger man was actually one of the many highlights of this trip and we had shared some ridiculous moments belting out songs, dancing along to others, drinking, playing Foosball and then having intermittent conversations on the bus trip back to Montreal.

Hilariously enough, I had not recognized him at first when he approached me while I was dancing, entranced as I was in my own little world on the elevated platform near the DJ.  My three companions were dancing off to my right on the rather empty dance floor, being a little too conservative to be on display shaking and moving above everyone else. 

A few minutes soon after our arrival, the really good looking man in question, wearing a close-fitting red t-shirt and faded, scuffed, torn and tastefully tight jeans, had approached my sacred dancing space and had smiled at me - I, being the innocent and friendly gal that I am, had smiled back just as sweetly.  The roguish man had then proceeded to comment, while looking at me and drawing circles next to his ear and pretending to drink a few too many beers, to my new male acquaintance, whom I had only met earlier that evening at Milsa.  Intrigued, I kept looking at him, a little confused and wondering what was going on.  I like a good game of charades, but when you are the subject of the imitation and apparent ridicule, it gets tiring pretty quickly.  So, after this now seemingly rude and clearly drunk guy had spoken to my new pal and had pointed at me a few too many times while doing so, I looked at him pointedly and stopped dancing.  At this point, he had come closer and his beer-infused breath had tickled my ear while he had asked in a loud enough manner to be heard over the music, "You don't remember me, do you?"

I had stepped back, pretended to study him for a few seconds and then had to shrug my shoulders with a smile when the answer to his question was an unfortunate no;  my mind was drawing a blank and I was unable to distinguish him from the many people I have been lucky enough to have met since last September.  He mumbled something as he shook his head and began to walk away, and the only word I was able to catch was "ASFA"... and then my memory suddenly awoke and desperately shot out images into my mind of who this man was.

I screamed out his name excitedly, jumped off my platform and grabbed his shoulders as he continued to walk away towards the bar.  He turned around and smiled to which I replied by stretching my body as tall as it could humanly go while taking his gorgeous face in my hands and bringing it to mine so as to kiss both of his stubbly and slightly scratchy cheeks.  I grinned at him as I let go of his face and then grabbed his arm to pull him back onto the dance floor with me.

Funny how life is: it throws you a cute curve ball every once in a while to show you that they really still DO exist!
        

Where Art Thou Romeo? OR Superman does NOT Exist, But Superwoman Still Might

I am warning you, this blog is not for the faint hearted.  I am rather disheartened as I write this and it is coming from an angry and bitter place ... but I will try to see the positive side of things even while giving sway to my ranting self.  I wish to take one for the female team as I am aware that I am not the only one of my kind who feels the way I am about to describe ...  so, ladies, this one is for you.  If there are some men reading this one, do not judge this loca woman, and the rest of us, too harshly.  Remember that we, women, are crazy and you, men, are stupid.   

After at least twelve years of calling myself a feminist, I have succumbed to the sad realization that I may not have come that much further than my younger and more naive and innocent counterpart who devoured, on a daily basis, fairy tales with beautiful illustrations, watched transfixed as the same beloved tales came to life through the magic of Walt Disney and made Ken and Barbie fall blissfully and passionately in love with each other and get married over and over and over again... Except now that I am twenty seven years old and soon to be twenty eight, I am thankfully no longer playing with dolls or Barbies or projecting myself onto the television screen as Cinderella, Snow White or Ariel, I am actually doing something far worse and more pervasive: I am painfully aware that I am hoping, praying and wishing, albeit under bated and hushed breath, that the patterns I grew up with and imitated in various forms of play will somehow magically occur in my real adult life.

I may not have been screaming it out loud from any rooftops or galleries, what woman in her right mind would, until this very moment and through this electronic medium, but it appears as though I have been secretly wanting Prince Charming to come and rescue me... from what, I am not sure yet.  And here's the question I have been asking myself despite my instinctual repugnance and aversion to it: where is the Ken to my Barbie, the Beast to my Belle, the Eric to my Ariel, the Romeo to my Juliet, the Tristan to my Isolde, the Gambit to my Rogue, the Spiderman to my Mary Jane, and the Superman to my Lois Lane?  Well ladies, and perhaps a few gents, my Superman has so far been a no-show.

There have been a few potential candidates onto which I have unknowingly and mistakenly projected my ingrained childhood fantasy, but for various reasons not one of these men has turned out to be my knight in shining armor.  And my God have I ever publicly sneered at such a notion my whole life... and yet here I am, alone, wondering: when will my turn come up?  When will my number or name be called?  When will I win the lottery in this game of love?  I cannot be the only crazy woman who can see a wonderful and picturesque future unfold right before my eyes as soon as a man suits my fancy ... and is then shattered to bits when our story does not unfold the way I have imagined it would.  Thus far it seems as though every time a door into the magical realm of love is slightly ajar and I find myself peeking inside hopefully, but not as cautiously as I should, it is unceremoniously slammed shut in my face.

And is it not so utterly pathetic that despite my more-than-amazing girlfriends, my four teaching contracts, my having just become the volunteer coordinator for the Metropolis Blue Literary Festival, my wonderful and supportive family, my good health and remaining sanity, it is the aforementioned questions that  keep me awake at night;  I toss and turn in my bed as though I am on a sinking ship in the middle of a desolate ocean while the questions and thoughts gnaw at my insides like an intangible and insatiable hunger.

There is this terrible empty feeling inside of me as though a balloon has been inflated within my rib cage and gut so that there is no room left for anything else while at the same time there is a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.  I feel like I am a hollow ivory statue waiting for Pygmalion's wish that I be awakened, or conversely, I am an empty and translucent vessel that cannot ever be filled regardless of the people I surround myself with and the activities with which I jam-pack my days.  I do not want to sound overly dramatic and say that I always feel like this, but inevitably this sensation returns again and again when my mind and body are still for a few moments.  I feel emotionally raw, bruised, chafed, vulnerable, exposed and naked and there is an immense part of me that despises these sensations, thoughts and emotions that are swirling around in me like a sorrowful vortex.  My nose is hurting from slamming into so many walls and dead ends... 

And as much as I hate myself for having these ideas that a man is going to suddenly appear in my life and make everything so much better, and believe me I so truly do, I cannot help but wonder how men feel when faced with this female desire for them to become their everything.  Listening to Eminem's "Superman" song, as vulgar and disgusting as it is when you really stop and listen to the lyrics, makes a lot of since in an aggravating and unnerving manner.  What are we expecting these men to be for us anyways?  And how is that fair for us to be asking them to be that?

So, who can I blame for my perhaps insane and yet completely hopeless romantic streak?  Who can I target for having made me wish that a prince will come riding into my life on a white horse or in a white limousine a la "Pretty Woman"?  Who can I hold responsible for my wanting to find this elusive man who will make me the happiest woman in the world?  Society?  My parents, and especially perhaps my mother who bought me all of those Barbies?  The media?  Religion?  The female chromosome?  North American culture?  Literature and the ridiculous authors that write the greatest love stories ever told?  Movie directors?  Singers?  Composers?  My friends?  Myself?

Well... perhaps all of the above.  We, more the female variety than the male, all seem to be caught up in this idea that love is the answer to everything... and maybe, it isn't?
So, since my name is not Lois Lane and my Superman is not coming ... perhaps I can be my own Superwoman and bury the knight in shining armor notion deep into the ground once and for all... it will be difficult because it has been inculcated in me since birth it seems... but I shall fight it with all of my imagined superhero strength and abilities.  In the end, I can only rely on myself, even if I have the greatest girlfriends and family members on the planet, and so why not cultivate a loving relationship with myself first and then extend that love to the people in my life who really deserve it.  Who is this man anyways who is going to come into MY life and change it?  And why should MY life be transformed for him?

Life is so uncertain and the tides are always changing... I need to learn how to be the wind in my own sails so that the next time an immense gust blows, I will not be swept off course and almost smashed and splintered into smithereens on some jagged boulders that are lurking right underneath the surface of the stormy sea.   

Reflections over Heavenly Coffee

I am perched atop a low backed black plastic stool with skinny metal legs at the high Formica counter that is desperately trying to imitate marble and yet failing considerably to do so;  the wall of street level windows is directly in front of me and I glance at the individuals I presume to be students and professors scurrying along Mackay to and from their classes.  The cool air hitting the windows or an invisible ventilation duct is causing fleshy goosebumps to form on my pale exposed arms.  Meanwhile, the latte I am slowly sipping is competing with this passive aggressive cold front by gently and gradually warming up the inside of my belly while languidly spreading its heat throughout the rest of my body and into my extremities.  The tall paper cup I am lovingly holding in my left hand while my right is busy composing nonsense already feels lukewarm and yet it nevertheless also feels quite comforting against the sensitive skin of my palm.  The delicate raspberry flavor permeating my grandiose latte tickles and plays with my palate and tongue as I nurse this newly discovered gem, only setting it down when I check the time on my annoyingly silent cellphone.  Drinking this deliciously mild mixture of mocha goodness makes me regret all of the years I have spent not being intimately acquainted with this divine liquid we mortals call coffee.

The conversations unfurl around me and mix with the sound of milk being foamed, cups and saucers being clinked and clanked against one another, the lone cash register's buttons being pressed and it beeping loudly in protestation, loose change being dropped onto the counter instead of into the awaiting cashier's hand and the low and almost inaudible humming of a working dishwasher.  Snippets and bits of dialogues and discussions reach my ears, laughter shared over perhaps now tepid teas and coffees, exclamations over life's hilarity or someone's wit and the peculiar yet muted sound of a few dispersed laptop users either assuredly and fluidly typing away or hesitantly pecking at the threatening keys before them.  The various noises blend into one another to create a coffee house symphony with its own ebb and flow;  at times all of the instruments are playing at once so that there is a pleasant cacophony of sound while at other moments only certain ones take center-stage.  Leona Lewis' song "Better in Time" significantly and eerily begins to play, but I am barely able to focus on the words because images of three particular men are crowding into my tired brain;  I try in vain to reconnect with the distinctly separate and yet interconnected sounds, yet the thoughts and the feelings that are intertwined with them are too strong.

The disappearance of one of these men from my life has left me with a constant dull pain that never seems to go away because I miss his friendship and assuring presence so very much.  Perhaps more so recently since I have taken the teaching contract at Pius and I now have to wait every night at the same bus stop he would often come and pick me up at.  The recent absence of the other, although known and anticipated, has left me reeling in a way that I should have predicted and yet chose to ignore and his laughing eyes and irresistible smile are never far from my mind's eye.  In fact, while walking to the Sushi Shop on the other side so as to grab a small bite to eat, I am obliged to pass by the table where we had sat and shared more than just hot drinks - the memory of that kiss causes a bittersweet smile to form on my nostalgic lips as I attempt to smother and suffocate the volcano of passionate scenes that are threatening to erupt within the private viewing chambers of my mind.  The re-emergence in my surroundings of the last man I am musing over, despite or because of my best efforts to the contrary, has confused, befuddled and angered me;  puzzled because of how I still feel about him, yet frustrated because I should and do know better.

However, as I sit here and people-watch, imagining the diverse yet assuredly complicated relations and connections between the different groupings of individuals that stroll by, I gently but firmly push the invasive and intrusive images of the aforementioned male sort back into the recesses of my mind from where I know they will continue to lurk and from which they will inevitably crawl back out of.  The light brown and black splattered wannabe marble Formica surface comes back into focus;  I let the clatter and noise seep back into my consciousness while I take a second to smile inwardly at myself because I have just enjoyed the most savory and delicious coffee since I fell in love at Second Cup about three weeks ago ... that creamy and sweet maple syrup concoction that is worth every freakin' ingested calorie and most be sipped extremely slowly so as to draw out every millisecond of pleasure and taste ... YUMMY!!

I take a moment to concentrate on the essentials that I have a direct impact upon: I have slept, albeit not that well; I have eaten, only enough to satisfy my daily nutritional demand, but there is food in my tummy; and yes, I am still breathing.  The rest will come.  And, if it is anything like the short-lived glimpse I was given for a month of what it can feel and be like, then I a can wait patiently because I know it will be wonderful ... and it will trump even the glorious maple syrup ambrosia I absolutely adore.

How Do You Know?????? (Part Two)

Let me start off this blog with two quotes about my wonderful, beautiful and ridiculously amazing friends:

A single rose can be my garden... a single friend, my world.
Leo Buscaglia
And I have six lovely senoritas in my life that I can call my friends, so you can imagine how full my world really is.


Friends are the sunshine of life.
John Hay
And they really are the sunshines of my life when my sky seems so overcast and gray... and when the sun does shine, well then they are what makes the days seem so much brighter and even more amazing.


So, while I should be planning for my lesson tonight, here I am writing a blog about my friends once again because I have been blessed with THE most incredible women that anyone could ever find in the whole entire world.  And so how do I know that they are the most fantastic individuals that have ever been born on this whole planet?  Well, here we go:


She encourages you to go to the gym with her by calling you a fat cow if you do not go and sweat yourself silly at 7:30 in the morning - now, this might not sound funny at first, but it IS when you get to call HER a fat cow if she does not go to the gym either!  So, the fact that you can call each other huge heifers and moo at one  another if neither of you go to the gym is incredibly hilarious and not meant to hurt each other in the slightest... and she still tells you that you are beautiful anytime that you see her.  She does not get angry at you either when you are constantly flaking out on her when you are supposed to be going to the gym together and she accepts that you are trying so hard to do just that but are being hindered by lack of sleep...
She also knows how you are and tells it to you straight when you are thinking of doing stupid and silly things that are not good for you in the slightest - and then does not get mad at you when you do not listen to her because you are as foolish as you know and think you are.  Not only that, but she job hunts FOR you when you tell her that being a teacher is perhaps not what you are meant to be... and then she finds you a job posting that combines the art of teaching with the ability to make people feel beautiful while working with children... WOW...

She patiently listens to you rant, rail, whine, complain and confess your misdeeds and then responds by telling you very sweetly: "I do not agree with what you are doing, but I will not yell at you or scream at you and I will be there for you no matter what" in that gloriously soft and matter-of-fact voice of hers.  And then she hugs you very tightly the next time she sees you and tells you that she only wants what is best for you.
She goes to a salsa lesson when she had not felt like going to begin with and she mostly attends FOR you... and not only that, but she does in fact stay at the club with you for a little while because she knows you are crazy and need to dance - of course, it helps that the lesson was being held THERE to begin with, but you know she would have come upstairs with you even if it was just for a short while.

She begins to party with you in the hopes of getting super drunk because she is dealing with stuff of her own, and yet she stops drinking when she sees that you have become so completely sloshed that you are not making any sense at all - she then cleans up after you when you have lost your dinner in your bed, strips the linens from the bed and places them in the wash, tells you to take a shower and stands outside the door while asking you periodically if you are ok in there, picks out the most comfy flannel pajamas you own, and then tucks you into bed - meanwhile, need I repeat that she is coping with her own shit and that this is the SECOND time that she takes care of you while you are entirely too inebriated to even remember your own name nevermind the reason why you ingested all of that alcohol to begin with?  And may I also mention that TWO drunken nights are now owed to her from yours truly.
She also plans a summer in England with you even though you are a completely neurotic and crazy individual - but you both know that you would have SUCH a blast together and you are both so convinced of this fact that you are ready to jump on a plane together the very next day if it was not for work, school and life obligations.  Watch out all you British men out there with your sexy accents!!  WOMAN, you know it's true!!

After a day spent at the ER, she comes and sees you bearing a Cadbury Creme Egg, an oatmeal cookie, the best hug ever and the most beautiful smile;  you are beyond happy that she is there and that she did not listen to your halfhearted protestations because you had wanted to spare her the screaming man in the back and the chatterbox sitting next to you.  She even stays in the waiting room while you are finally being seen by the doctor;  then she comes to embrace you when she sees you standing there outside the room in a flimsy gown feeling as vulnerable as a newborn with your nerves having been frayed to bits because you are STILL waiting for that doctor.  And even though she had made previous plans with other friends, she only leaves you when she knows you are ok.
She invites you to a chalet she has the opportunity of staying at because she knows that you need to get away from your life even if it is only for a very short while - and what a getaway it will be with two gorgeous and wonderfully kind and charming men, my beautiful and amazingly silly English mate with the most incredible laugh and, if she comes, my laugh-till-my-sides-hurt soul sister, Steph.

She makes sure that it is ok that she invites her new boyfriend over because she knows that it might be a sensitive issue for you, but when you let her know that you would rather she be there WITH him than not be there at all, she verifies that you are still good if she does in fact decide to go to his house just for convenience sake. 
She makes sure that you are doing well and lets you know that she is there for you if you need to talk or if you just want to watch tv or a movie with her and she even gives you your space when you respond that you just wanna write a blog and listen to some sappy music (which, by the way, she has NOT complained about, though sappy music has been blaring since last week !!).

She hugs you as though you have not seen each other in ages EVERY time you DO see one another and these are some of the most amazing embraces because they are so genuine and heartfelt!  And, have I mentioned that these hugs are like beer on tap ??  You just have to ask for another and there it is!
She THANKS YOU when all you have done is listen to her and offer some of your perhaps less than sound advice;  of course, she gives you the same opportunity to spill your own beans any time you need to.

I cannot express how wonderful it is to know that I can count on my chicitas to provide me with either the comfort and love I need when I am feeling less than my fabulous self or to offer me the very best times of my life.  I am one of THE luckiest women in the world by far for being able to say that these women are a part of my life.

Running... Better than Sex???

I have just discovered that running is an activity that is very similar to riding a bike, swimming, skating, playing an instrument or any kind of sport, eating chocolate and having sex: once you have done it at least once in your lifetime and even when you have not indulged in a little while, your body still just knows what to do and enjoys it oh-so-much when you do go for it.

I was sitting at my computer, aimlessly and guiltily wasting my time on Facebook when I should have been doing a bunch of other more important and significant chores and duties, when my wonderful roomie asked me quite nonchalantly if I wanted to go for a run with her.  My first response would have been, "Nah... I had not planned on running today and I have tons of things to do..." - remember what I was doing, right?  The funny thing is that when you have not run in a while because of many more-than-enjoyable yet sleep-deprived nights, days spent doing various sorts of physical gymnastics or because of your body's discomfort due to a strange and seemingly implausible physical situation, your first instinct is to NOT go running when asked - in fact, you want to do quite the opposite at the mere mention of the word "running", or you DO want to run, but you want to run away screaming and flailing your arms from the word and the act of running.  However, I surprised both me and my roommate when I actually said, "Yeah, sure.  Just let me get dressed and I am right there with you."

I felt better than I had all weekend as soon as I pulled on my worn-in jogging pants that are way too thin to be running in at this time of year, my usual thin black long-sleeved shirt, my gray Cuisines Crotone sweater, my faded navy blue polar fleece sweater that is way too big for me, my striped running scarf and my black Piglet tuque - what a beautiful runner I make, let me tell you.  Lululemon ain't got nothing on me.  I topped off my killer running outfit by adding my navy blue and turquoise striped gloves that I normally have to take off anyways when I get too warm - yes peeps, you do actually get warm when you jog outside in the winter.  I could already sense my mood lifting as I slipped on my ancient sneaks and made sure that my house key was well-tied onto the laces of my right shoe.  I was ready and yet dreading this run a little because I had not jogged in a while... cannot even tell you the last time I had run, so it might have been closer to Christmas time or perhaps early in January.  Regardless - I was feeling more reluctant than energetic and yet at the same time I was feeling a familiar tugging and pulling to be out there on the snow-covered pavement, letting my feet carry me on my customary route.

I knew I had made the best impulsive decision I have ever made in a long time as soon as Sharon and I started running.  My lungs relaxed from the initial cold shock, my feet felt the familiar squish, slop and slickness of the snow and slush and my arms tensed slightly while they began to swing alternately.  We reached the main street close to our apartment and it stretched out in front of me in a non-threatening manner;  the sun at this point in the day was high in the sky and its rays kissed the tips of our noses and our exposed cheeks.  The wind was on vacation that day and the air was just crisp enough to make you want to start moving somehow and yet not cold enough to make you want to turn back immediately.

Once we got going on the main street, I was surprised to find that it was much easier than I had anticipated and I was able to keep a steady pace.  In between breaths, Sharon and I chatted about the men in our lives, my stay at the General and my recent altercation with my best friend so that we could forget about the fact that we were in fact running!  Pretty soon though, I reached that magical running moment when I feel as though my body can just keep on going and going and never stop... and it felt amazing.

I convinced Sharon to do all of our usual trajectory, passing by the bus booth that used to have OUR husband GSP's clothing ad, retracing our steps and then continuing until the Belanger light and by the end of it my pace kept increasing until I reached the Desjardins goal and pumped my fists into the air à la Rocky.  My calf muscles began to throb dully as they usually do after a run, just to let me know, like recalcitrant children, that they had in fact worked hard for me and I should recognize their effort.  My cracked and bruised heart was buoyed up from the bottom of the ocean of emotion it had been drowning in since Thursday and all of the endorphins released in my body were having a party and I had been invited.

What a great run that was and here's to many more!  Only TWO more months left before the Minto Race of 10km... BRING IT!!!

Meeting a Talkative Angel and Eating a Cadbury Creme Egg in the General ER Waiting Room

I would never have thought that I would be spending all of the Saturday that I was supposed to have spent at SPEAQ Campus at the General Hospital Emerg in the waiting room instead, but life rarely steers you where you think you should be going.  I had not been feeling physically well since Friday afternoon and on Saturday morning I had begun to feel much worse, so I had asked Stephanie whether I should go to the General or not, which is up the hill from Concordia, and she had insisted that I do in fact go.

It was pretty quiet when I got there and so I had thought it would not take too long for me to be seen by the doctor... big mistaken assumption on my part seeing as there is a whole behind-the-scenes area through which many more patients with much bigger issues and problems pass.  The worst part was that I had not brought my Ipod nor my book "Women are Crazy, Men are Stupid" because I had thought that I would be going out later with the SPEAQ crowd to Mckibbin's... so, I had nothing to entertain myself with other than my topsy-turvey thoughts and images of a dear one walking through the very area where I was stuck twiddling my thumbs;  wondering in which area he might have worked and who he might in fact know while telling myself to focus on the silly Sudoku I was trying to do from the 24 Heures with the ballpoint pen I had bummed from the unimpressed and jaded looking security guard.  *Sigh* Did I mention the title of the book I could have brought with me and did not?  Well, me sitting in the waiting room, musing, pondering, reminiscing and imagining the way I was?  Prime example of a loca senorita.

I was getting even crazier by the minute because of the wait, which was no one's fault, and I was too bummed out and physically hurting to really talk to any of the other individuals waiting around in the same dreary state I was in.  A balding man on a stretcher in front of me needed help a couple of times, once with rolling his plaid sleeve back onto his arm, another time because the faded folded hospital gown at the foot of his makeshift bed had fallen and the last with his boots when he wanted to go out for a smoke, but other than that, we were all pretty miserable and not speaking much to each other.

At some point in the early afternoon, after I had been seen by the cute Asian frontline nurse wearing dark turquoise and purple lined scrubs, who left me with a huge bruise on my right hand after having tried to take blood from there, I had gone back to triage to know when I would be seen.  I was sitting in the hallway directly to the right of the entrance, waiting at the triage door, the swinging doors into the next long corridor opening every once in a while because of a punched in security code to reveal a dark-skinned man holding what looked like a Bible, fervently imploring any passersby to say "Hallelujiah", when a bald Latin American man sat next to me.  He was holding his head and looking a little more than dazed;  he rather quickly went in to see the triage nurse and then lurched and stumbled to the registration area while I went to see the triage nurse and did not get any of the responses I had been hoping for.

I therefore grudgingly went back to my original seat and resigned myself to spending the whole day staring at the ensuing and oh-so-boring golf game on the tv screen mounted on the wall directly in front of me.  A few minutes after my bum had somewhat comfortably settled on the not-so-comfortable plasticy seat, the groggy looking thirty-something year old man plopped himself in the vacant place next to mine.  The dialogue between us pretty much began like any other conversation that is started in a hospital waiting room: questions like what's wrong with you to make you be here, how long have you been here and how long do you have to wait followed.  He calmly told me his diagnosis by the triage nurse in his slightly accented voice: he either had a nerve stuck somewhere near his jaw that was not allowing the right side of his face to move normally, or he was going to have a stroke... wow.

"So, I woke up this morning and the whole right side of my face was numb and you see?  I still can't really move my lips normally - what does my face look like right now?  Am I smiling evenly or do I still look like Jim Carrey?  God I hate Jim Carrey and I hate looking like him.  Hey, I have a question for you, which disease is a fake one?  Pink rabies or water intoxication?"  (Pink rabies by the way).  And so began my day with Angelo, a well-meaning yet perhaps slightly deranged fellow patient, and my short-lived yet very entertaining education concerning the seemingly peculiar customs or beliefs held by various cultures.  Do any of you know why a Japanese man will order a smaller meal than his boss when out at a restaurant?  Did you know that some Latin Americans are so ashamed to be called by that cultural name that they deny it completely?  And, I am sure that some of you had no idea that Koreans will give gifts with two hands, not just one.  We also had a rather interesting discussion about language and what it means for a person like me to not be able to identify with a specific language, but rather equally with two;  he thought it was hilarious that I cannot speak angrily in my supposed mother tongue when I am really peed off and so I usually have to resort to English or end up looking like a stuttering and spluttering fool.  Peeps, you think I, Marie-Eve Therrien, speak a lot?  Well, you have not met Angelo, who would be my match and perhaps even rival in any conversational Olympics if there were any.

I, in the frayed and nervous state that I was in by the time I met him, welcomed the distraction and listened avidly, but somewhat annoyingly, I'll grudgingly admit, to all of his banter.  We settled into a mostly one-sided exchange, our seating arrangements not allowing us to really be that distant from each other, so our arms were touching not uncomfortably.  At times, I wished I was back to being alone because his overly energetic monologues were demanding way too much of my attention and focus when all I wanted to do was leave, go home, put on my flannel pj's and crawl in between my cold sheets, but his presence was in general very welcome.

Having lost track of the time that was crawling by so slowly like a stoned and inebriated snail, I do not have any idea when the screaming commenced from somewhere in the back that was not visible to us fortunate folk in the waiting area.  Seeing my horror-struck expression and intuitively knowing that his conversation would no longer hold my attention, Angelo kindly offered that we listen to his MP3 player, which I gladly accepted and tuned into with one ear while he listened to the other.  Then, when the yelling grew worse, he kindly offered the other earphone to me so that I could plug both of my ears and focus on the rather strange song that he later told me was a lesbian love ballad... will not even comment on that!!!

And then, like a rainbow after a really dark and rainy day when the sun barely peeks out from behind the gloomy and gray clouds, my beautiful and wonderful English mate Row decided that she would come and see me despite my protestations, negations and grumblings to the contrary.  She appeared by my side after having texted me throughout the day for updates and she was bearing two gifts: an oatmeal cookie and a Cadbury Creme Egg... what a blessing she was!  Her blondish red hair was slightly damp from the softly falling snow that had started at some point during the awfully long day, but her wide and open mouthed grin and shining eyes were all I paid attention to and took solace from... ok, ok, the chocolate and the cookie DID help a little as well.  However, it was evidently more the fact that she was sitting there next to me, willing to wait around until I was examined by the doctor, that really made me see what it means to truly be someone's friend.  And, of course, I have mentioned that she had brought me chocolate AND a cookie.

At the end of this horrible day, I was more than alright, which I cannot say the same about for the other patients with whom I had shared my time because I do not know what their fates were.  The "Hallelujah" preacher, the blood-curdling screamer and even the ancient Italian man who jumped out of his stretcher, pulled out his IV and was found wandering in the stairwell after I had seen more than I would have ever wanted to see of his flabby and sunken backside, were all way worse off for wear than I was.

I left the Hospital at 9:30 pm after having registered at roughly 11:00 am and all I could think about was how I was going to scarf down a massive poutine at Mckibbin's with my woman Steph, who was waiting for me there with the other SPEAQ members I had unwillingly let down by my absence.  During my interminable stay at the General, I met an angel who would not shut up and I ate a Cadbury Creme Egg brought to me by a woman I am so fortunate to be able to call my friend;  I left the stale air and, in order to celebrate, my body decided to jog along Sherbrooke street and then to sprint down Mackay all the way to Mckibbin's.  I am hoping that my talkative angel was able to leave the Hospital in the same capacity that I was and I cannot thank him enough for having kept me company during our shared waiting time.